


Lost in Dreams Snippets

by ImmaRwaffle



Series: Lost in Dreams [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Body Horror, Different POV's, Modern Girl in Thedas, Snippets, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26619682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmaRwaffle/pseuds/ImmaRwaffle
Summary: Drabbles and POV's that didn't fit in the main "Lost in Dreams" fic.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Surana (one-sided), Male Amell/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Surana
Series: Lost in Dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936468
Kudos: 17





	1. Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Relative to chapter 3 of "Lost in Dreams"

Once upon a time, there was an old King, who had been trying desperately to have an heir for years, and when his Queen was finally graced with child, they threw an extravagant ball in celebration. The King invited every person of significance in the kingdom, even extending invitations to the wise old Witches of the Wilds who lived on the edge of the kingdom’s border.

Each Witch gave blessings to the young princess; beauty to rival the sun, grace to rival a swan, wisdom to rival an owl, voice to rival a nightingale, and gentleness to rival a halla.

Before the last Witch could offer her blessing, a loud crack and bright flash flared over the ballroom, and all the fires went dark and cold.

The Great Witch Flemeth, Mother of Vengeance, stood before the court, wreathed in veilfire, and all who attended looked on in horror.

The King had not sent Flemeth an invitation to the celebration, whether out of ignorance or malice did not matter, for she had been slighted all the same.

‘Let all who hear this know’, she called out to the trembling courtiers,’ that though the princess shall indeed grow in beauty and grace, splendor and refinement, on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, she shall prick her finger on a spinning wheel, and enter a sleep like death.’

With another crack, a bright flash once again covered the room and she was gone as quickly as she came. The King and Queen wailed and bemoaned the fate that had fallen on their daughter. What were they to do against the Evil Flemeth’s wicked and powerful magic? No spell or prayer could break it.

‘Fear not’, said the last Witch, who had yet to grant her boon to beautiful but doomed princess, ‘for though I cannot break her spell, I may negate it.’ And so, she reached deep within herself, and drew forth powerful magic meant to bend the curse laid on the sweet babe.

‘On her sixteenth birthday, she shall prick her finger and fall into Uthenera, yes, but should she find true love before then, a kiss bestowed will break the curse, waking her from eternal slumber.’ And so it was said, and so it was.

Fearing his daughter’s life, the King had every spinning wheel in the kingdom burned – putting a lot of spinsters out of business – and sent his daughter to live with the Witches on the edge of the kingdom until her sixteenth birthday, so as to keep her away from Flemeth’s gaze.

And so, she lived deep in the Wilds with the Witches, unknowing of her birthright, practicing their magic, and walking every night in the Fade.

In her nightly journey’s she came upon a young man being set upon by demons. Being of kind heart, she immediately began to help the man drive them off.

When they were gone and she was able to get a better look at the stranger whose life she’d saved, she was startled to find that he was actually a boy close in age to her.

‘What are you doing wander such a dangerous part of the Fade so unarmed?’ she asked him.

‘I was seeking to see more of the world,’ he replied.

‘Can you not do so in the Waking? Why must you rely on reflections in the realm of Dreams?”

‘Alas, my fair Lady, I am leashed by obligation to curb my roaming tendencies,’ he quipped, ‘And what are you doing here, so far out and alone? Perhaps you are more suspicious than I?’

‘I am afraid I am no Lady, my dear Sir, for I hold no claim to noble title. And as for suspicion, you would do well to remember I just saved your life,’ she sniffed in indignation.

‘Ah, forgive me my cautious nature and assumptions, for I have been spurned before, and the beauty of your visage makes fools of those who’d deem you a Lady in radiance,’ he grinned charmingly.

Flustered, for she had never truly interacted with anyone her own age before, and never such a flirtatious lad, she decided to press for more information, ‘Spurned? By who, what for? And what obligations would demand that you not wander in the least from your origin?’

‘I work in a court my dear, listening everyday to the complaints of the common folk and nobility alike, and bound by duty to obey,’ he sighed.

‘You are a servant?’ she guessed, for she knew little of the innerworkings of a court, only that which she could gleam from a dream, and he did not seem so terrible and pompous to be of the noble sort.

‘Indeed!’ he laughed with glee, ‘perhaps I am a scribe, or a page then?’

‘Wouldn’t you know?’

‘Indeed, I think not, for one can never be too sure of their place in the world, you have changed the view of mine.’

Despite herself, she was duly charmed by the odd lad she had met within a dream, who could not give a straight answer but could say five things within a single compliment.

‘You are strange, and amusing,’ she declared, ‘I would like to meet you again, are you amenable?’

His eyes sparkled with mirth as he spoke, ‘My Lady, it would be my delight to entertain you once again, when it makes you smile so. I have decided, I shall be the court jester then!’ And he laughed at a joke that only he would know, for a while.

And so, they met again, and again, charming and enchanting one another with dancing wordplay and dancing feet, circling in the Fade like a wolf and a halla – though which was which they couldn’t tell you – until the eve of the princess’s sixteenth birthday.

Her father had demanded her returned to the palace, for if she was to slumber an eternity after tonight, he at least wanted to have seen her laughing for a day.

The princess, now fully-grown and as beautiful, and graceful, and wise as had been promised, was astounded to learn of her true heritage. She spent the day tearfully reuniting with her parents, who hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since she was a babe, and feasting on all the refinement and splendor that had been denied her for the sake of security.

At the end of the day, she grew entranced by an enchanting tune coming from a higher tower. She followed the notes, climbing higher and higher, to the tallest tower of the castle.

There, in the barren wake of the evening light, was a blackened and charred spinning wheel, saved from the pyres by blackest of magic.

With an impulse not her own, she reached out, and pricked her finger on the spindle, collapsing onto the floor and closing her eyes to the Fade.

She did not dream, held in stasis between waking and sleeping by unnatural magics, confined within a bubble of the Fade, impossible to penetrate. When the boy she had been dreaming with came to meet once more, he would not find her, no matter how hard or how long he searched.

The palace denizens would not find her till morning, when she was not in her bed, and they would weep, and they would curse the name of Flemeth to the high heavens, but they could not wake her.

She was laid on her bed in the room that would have been hers, had she grown in the palace like had been her birthright, with wreaths of roses and lilies laid all about her.

The King bemoaned that he had not searched for a better answer, had not allowed her to find love, that there might be a chance to break the curse, and wept for the loss of a daughter he had forsaken the chance to know.

A knock at the palace doors drew the King from his mourning.

Opening the door, he looked out to see a lone boy, dressed in drab finery.

‘Greetings, Milord,’ he bowed, ‘I hate to trouble you, but might you have seen a girl whose beauty rivals the sun, and with the voice of a nightingale? I have been looking for her, you see, as she has disappeared and will not answer my calls. As I cannot think of anything I have done to warrant such treatment, and it has gone on for longer than reasonable, I worry, Sire, that she has found trouble, as she is wont to do.’

The King couldn’t believe his ears, this was too good to be true!

‘This girl of yours,’ said the king, ‘would you say you love her?’

‘With all my heart,’ the boy stared at him solemnly, ‘If she would have me, I would wed her, Milord, or we could elope if that is what she desired.’

‘I believe I may know where she is, come.’ The King dared to let himself hope that this boy might be the one, the key to waking his daughter.

The boy followed him up the stairs and through the palace, till they reached the room where the princess slept undisturbed.

The boy gazed upon her, laid out upon the bed, surrounding by flowers, dressed in a gown, and with a tiara placed delicately on her head, and thought that her beauty here did not compare to that of her raw smile in the Fade.

‘She is a princess?’ he asked for clarification, for if that was true, a great many things had been needlessly complicated.

‘Indeed, my own daughter,’ the King revealed, ‘She has been cursed to sleep without wake. Does this change how you feel about her?’

‘Indeed not, but a great many things appear to have been misunderstood, for I am a prince,’ he laughed. The King looked at him with shock.

‘What for?’ the King asked, bewildered.

‘What for? For birth and prestige, my Lord. I am of highest pedigree, as my father would tell you. I knew that my father would never allow my marriage to a commoner, so I stole away with only my crown and fine silverware, thinking that we could sell it to buy a house in the countryside.’ He explained.

‘But why risk it, if she had not yet even agreed?’

‘You see, I had to try, Sir, because she is worth it,’ he declared. ‘How may I wake her?’

‘True love’s kiss.’

‘Well that should be no problem on my end, shall we see if she is amenable?’ The prince joked, strolling over to her sleeping form.

He caressed her face gently, and whispered in her ear, ‘Apologies, my Lady, may you forgive my transgressions when you wake, but I’m afraid I must return the favor,’ and kissed her.

The result was instantaneous, her eyes flying wide open and magic flaring in defense. The prince was thrown back, but unharmed, and the King gasped in shock and relief painted across his face.

As she came to, she looked upon the prince and gasped, ‘Servant boy?! Am I dreaming?’

‘Not anymore, my Lady,’ he rose, ‘and servant boy no longer, I’m afraid.’

‘You were fired?’

‘Indeed not, though I may be disowned. I was a servant to the people through the Crown, my Lady; I am of royal persuasion as well.’

‘A prince?’ she cried in shock, ‘And I a princess as well? What are the odds! And why are you here, in the palace anyway?’

‘You did not answer in your dreams, my Lady, and I grew worried. I endeavored to find you, and pursue your hand in marriage if you were willing. I had even readied to elope.’

‘Elope? Yes, a thousand times yes!’ she cried, this time in joy. She leapt off the bed and threw herself into his arms.

‘I do not believe eloping shall be necessary, as I would gladly allow the savior of my daughter to marry her, be she willing. We may even convince his father of the match,’ the King told them.

And they rejoiced, and were married swiftly; the Prince’s father eventually coming around with the promise of a strong alliance between the two kingdoms. Flemeth did not return to sour the lovebirds’ happy ending, for she knew when she had been well and truly thwarted, and her curse had indeed taken root.

And so, they lived happily, and ruled the kingdoms jointly in peace and prosperity.


	2. Siona Surana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A character analysis and POV piece of Anuriel's mother, Siona Surana.

_You_ are Siona Amallas.

You are nine, and you have never been outside Denerim.

Your father is a fisher, and your mother works as a scullery maid. You know that you, as well, shall become a noble’s servant when you are old enough. All elves are servants. Except for the Dalish, but they’re either bandits, or don’t really exist.

If you are particularly lucky, one will take a liking to you, and promote you to lady’s maid – but only if you are very agreeable. You hope dearly that you won't catch the eye of an Orlesian; they aren't very nice.

You have a little sister, and you _adore_ her. She is quiet, and rather shy, but her mind is full of wonderous things you’d never have even imagined.

She speaks of dreams, and ships that sail on land, and great battles in far away lands. Other times she is withdrawn, and speaks haltingly of whispers, and cold hands, and eyes in the dark.

You don’t like those dreams as much, but you hold her on your lap, and run your fingers through her fiery hair as you coo soothingly.

Everything is fine – until it’s not.

She no longer speaks at dinner, staring across the table at nothing, unresponsive to any attempts at gaining her attention. She tosses in bed, whimpering, and wakes with a silent cry. She lays there, shaking and pale, with tear tracks on her cheeks, but she does not turn towards you in comfort.

You do not know how to help, so you are merely a silent bystander to her waking tragedy.

Her fitful slumber turns into whispering in empty rooms, and hoarding the knives from the kitchen. You find her with red scratches up and down her arms, and purpling bruises underneath her eyes. She is no longer sleeping; desperately staying up long into the night, counting stars and tracing constellations in vain attempts to stave off entrance into the Fade.

It culminates in the single, worst day of your life.

You are in the Market with your family. Avis trails behind you, distractedly, her tight grip on your thread-bare dress the only remaining tether between her mind and the physical world.

The grip loosens, your dress falling slack, and you feel your chest grow cold. You turn, and pursue her retreating figure into an alleyway.

You are too late. Perhaps it was always too late.

She is standing between three young, human boys and a scrawny mutt, likely the runt of its litter. Its fur is matted with blood, and the three boys hold sticks and stones clenched in their tight fists.

The casual cruelty that humans, even children such as these, can propagate never ceases to confound you.

They jeer, and mock, and taunt her, but she doesn’t respond.

You scream, and cry, and cajole, but she does not answer.

One of the boys raises his rock – throws it. You are too far away to make a difference. You should not have stopped at the start of the alley; should not have allowed fear to freeze your feet.

Or is that what saves your life?

The rock strikes her – she _screams_ , and it is no human noise.

The air burns around her, warping and twisting in matching tempo with her flesh. Her body distorts; spine bending, straining against the fabric of her dress, then breaking through. She doubles, nearly triples in size, spines poking out of broken, bleeding flesh. Pustules bubble up and burst, leaking puss onto the dirt and rock below.

You feel bile crawl up your throat and have to swallow back a scream. It is a sight that will stay with you for the rest of your life, haunting your dreaming and waking life in your worst moments.

The… _thing_ wearing your sister’s body – for that grotesque abomination, that monstrous _aberration_ of mortal form, existing in mocked parody of all things corporeal, is no longer your sister – laughs darkly, eldritch tones mixing in with what should be a little girl’s childish giggle in a way that turns your stomach.

You hope dearly that it is an empty shell, that nothing remains of your once beloved sister – for the terrible alternative is so much worse to consider.

It stands to its full height, one which rivals even the sparing tales of savage Qunari ox-men you’ve overheard by chance, and with a flick of its hand sends out a wreath of fire. The flame consumes everything around it, the curdling screams of the three boys drowning out the roaring between your ears. The smell of burnt flesh and hair assaults your nose.

A pained yelp draws your attention back to the dog your sister had tried to save. Your eyes meet its glossed ones, staring out from a charred corpse.

You stand, and stare, transfixed and seemingly unmoored from the strands of time and space forming the scene around you. It’s simply too much; so much so as to seem almost fake, containing a level of surrealism – of unreality.

You are re-anchored by the clamor of the Market. The scene has drawn attention; likely due to the burning buildings and terrified wails of the boys before they’d died. People are frenzied, panicking, and rushing to put as much distance between them and the abomination as possible as it moves towards the Market.

You are only alive because it overlooked you – perhaps some lingering affection from its host, a result of whatever bargain it made, or simply a complete and apathetic disregard for one so beneath its notice.

You’ve heard tales of the destruction caused by abominations; cities leveled, armies decimated, crops burned. Disaster such as that is averted only by the proximity of the Market to the Chantry, and its private host of Templars. Their numbers are bolstered by the Chevaliers stationed around the market.

They are swift and merciless, standing as sentries between it and their wards, with no care for the person it once was – might still be, in some small recess of its unfathomable mind.

When it is dead, and crisis is averted, you wander your way home in a fugue. Your parents greet you with a tearful reunion, and breathless inquiries as to the whereabouts of your sister.

You barely react, meeting their tearful gaze with deadened eyes and a harrowed heart. Your silence gives them answer enough, and they begin crying anew, tears shed for the daughter they have lost rather than the one they have regained.

You allow them to believe that she was killed by the abomination; it is better than tainting her memory with the horrific image of her small, fragile form twisting repulsively into the fiery, hulking behemoth.

…You are ten, and you are an only child.

* * *

You are eighteen, and you are getting married.

Your hahren has found a good match, even with such a modest dowry, and you are excited to start a new chapter of your life, finally entering adulthood in the eyes of your fellow alienage residents. You are sad that your parents are not here to see you become an adult; they were sold to an Orlesian nobleman when you were 12, just before the Orlesians retreated. Sometimes, you wish they hadn't hidden you, so you would still be with them - other days, you know they did it because they loved you.

His name is Revassan Surana, and he is a dockhand from Amaranthine, the port city.

Today marks the day that he will finally arrive in Denerim, and your stomach is fluttering with nervous butterflies in anticipation.

You wonder if he will be loud, or quiet? Brash or humble? Will he be a serious sort, or of good humor? You trust your hahren to do right by you, but you are told it is natural to wonder about these things, and so you allow yourself to.

He arrives, and your breath is stolen. Dressed in as much finery as an elf can afford, his dark hair curls teasingly in front of his sea green eyes, and a gentle smile graces his lips. You can only hope you compliment him in your modest wedding gown and tightly curled updo.

He is kind, and laughs easily. You are relieved – it will be easy to fall in love with him, and you have the rest of your life to do so.

He speaks of his travel, and of his city. He tells tales of forests, and hills, and grasslands. You have heard of them before, but find it difficult to imagine them. The only common point between you is the sea and the Alienage. Denerim has a bay, and Amaranthine has a strait, but water is the same everywhere. The Alienages have slight differences, but they all share the same purpose as an elven community.

The Revered Mother performs the ceremony in the central square, underneath the Vhenadahl, and it goes off without a hitch. There is drinking, and merrymaking, and the exchange of wedding gifts. Weddings are always a jubilant day for residents, made for partying and the welcoming of a new member of the community. You are so grateful to King Maric; if you were still under Orlesian rule, this would not be possible.

You are lucky that it was Revassan who agreed to come to Denerim, rather than you making the trip to Amaranthine. It is always riskier for a woman to brave the world outside the Alienage’s walls than for a man. Transportation is always a hard bargain, and doubly so for solitary elves.

If you had been the one to leave, a more solemn affair would have taken place, with your fellow Alienage dwellers offering food, gifts, and well-wishes on your journey. The loss of a neighbor is always a bitter pill for a culture so deeply rooted in community. It would have been the last time you’d ever seen them, and so the goodbye would be a memorable one.

You retire from the festivities with your new spouse, heading towards the newly acquired house rented from a human landlord. All your friends had pitched in for the down payment, as is custom for weddings. Moving is not a process done lightly within Alienages. It will be nice to have your own house again, not having to share your room with all the other orphans at the orphanage.

The night is a memorable one, and so is the next, and the next, and the next, until you begin to feel nauseous in the mornings and notice a tightness in the fabric around your waist.

The months leading up to the birth are filled with warmth and joy, getting to know your husband, and going over names for the babe.

The birthing process is a difficult one, and the midwife maintains a pinched sort of worried look throughout the endeavor. But you pull through, and with one last push, your new daughter is born.

You are exhausted, and agonized, but as she is placed on your chest, you muster a tired smile before drifting into the hazy embrace of the Fade.

(If non-mages were capable of remaining conscious in the Fade, you might have remembered being unnerved by the prickle on the back of your neck, signifying that you are being _watched_ by something not-quite mortal.)

When you wake, it is merely with a lingering discomfort that you brush aside as weariness lingering from the hard birth.

After the child has surpassed the customary few days of uncertainty, she is pronounced healthy, and you go along with your husband’s suggestion of naming her Anuriel, after his grandmother.

He says that she has an old soul, and wisdom beyond her years. You think nothing of it – for a time.

Days, months, years pass and the child is… _wrong_.

Staring into the middle distance, silent throughout the night, looking at the people and objects around her with a kind of _understanding_.

It is your firstborn, but the Alienage is a tight-knit community. You have seen other mothers with their newborn babes, watched over them when their parents were unavailable. All mothers share stories of their children with either a fond look in their eye, or a bitter tone in their voice.

After a while, you… do not. If they find this strange, they do not pester you about it, and you are grateful.

For the longest time, you do not know what to make of the child. You have never been prone to paranoia – you know it is not just your imagination.

She doesn’t talk often, lacking the unintelligible babbling of other babies. Occasionally, when she thinks she is alone, you will catch her practicing sounds, repeating them with the articulation of a foreigner learning a new language more than any kind of innocent babble.

When she says her “first word”, or at least, the first decipherable one, she looks directly across at you with a blank face, and clearly enunciates, “Mama”. You freeze, startled and unsure, but you push through it and raise her up, lavishing her chubby face with kisses.

Although she is not a fussy baby, not by far – far too calm and quiet actually, unnervingly so – she rarely smiles. When she does, it leaves her eyes blank and hollow, vacant like the glass orbs of porcelain dolls glimpsed at the Arl’s Estate and more expensive area of the Market.

You hope that if you ignore it, it will go away.

You should have known better; after all, it hadn’t worked with Avis, either.

After her first word, she quickly moves on to the second, third, fourth, fifth, etcetera. She progresses at an unusually fast pace, passing milestones such as walking and talking far before other children her age. The other residents coo and compliment her on her intelligence – you give a sharp, strained smile and change the subject.

You leave her to her father, and Valendrian, but it is not enough.

She often daydreams during her lessons, but still knows more about abstract subjects than even the oldest or most well-travelled elves. When they allow themselves to humor her, she grasps concepts far beyond her ken with a depth of understanding even they sometimes lack.

Despite this, she is devoid of any initiative to interact with other children beyond spinning stories and weaving tales for their entertainment – far too reminiscent of the early days, when Avis dreamt of wonderful and impossible things. Instead, she sleeps long hours, far longer than normal; laying removed from the world entire evenings, only to wake up long after noon the next day.

You beg Revassan to try for another one. He acquiesces, and soon you are heavy with another child – a proper one this time, you beg the Maker and His Bride.

Upon your request, the midwife sends the girl to stay with the Tabris family throughout the birth.

The Maker takes mercy on you, and grants your wish for a beautiful baby boy. You name him immediately; “Salim Surana”.

He wails, and cries snotty tears, and is blessedly, wonderfully normal for a newborn babe.

When Revassan returns with the girl, she peers over the edge of the crib, staring at your son dispassionately, and your chest seizes with panic.

“Don’t crowd him!” you cry. Anything to keep her away from him. You don’t want whatever is wrong with her to infect him.

She draws back sharply, flinching away from the crib.

You worry you were too harsh, too hasty, but…

Revassan pulls you towards him with one arm around your shoulder, whispering sweet, soothing nothings into the hair above your ear. He asks what’s wrong and you respond truthfully, “I don’t want her to hurt the baby.”

The girl begins sniffling, drawing Revassan away from you to go comfort her instead. She whimpers “Papa” as he cradles her to his chest, singing a familiar lullaby. Her eyes meet yours over his shoulder and you recoil – the acidic green carries an ethereal quality, nothing like comforting sea green of her father’s.

He continues to sooth her fake cries, unable to glimpse the true reality of her, and her unnatural, manipulative nature. But you know. She can no longer fool you; the vitriol in her glare was proof enough of her true nature.

The child is unnatural; and you will do your best to protect your family from it, however possible.

* * *

You are Siona Surana, and your child is possessed.

You had always known something was wrong with the child, but it wasn’t until one night, while fitful and anxious, you had woken to find its bed empty, and had crept silently into the kitchen.

At first you only heard whispers, but as you drew closer, they began to grow more audible, though no less incomprehensible.

You found it dancing silently in nothing but its shift. It believed itself alone, secure in solitude, and whispered liltingly to the air in tongues unknown. You may not be well-traveled – having never before seen the world outside Denerim’s walls – but those who frequent the Market hear bits and pieces of the languages spoken in far off lands. This was not one of them. This was not even the dead language of the Elvhen, lost to time and ruin. The words it spoke had no rhyme or reason except that construed within its own head. It was eerie, uncanny in its otherworldliness.

There was nowhere in Thedas a mortal, elven girl could have learned this strange, indecipherable language. None but the Fade, home of demons.

So many moments eerily reminiscent of the days before Avis gave in; the storytelling; withdrawal from reality; disregard for social interaction; inability to fake emotional investment in anything – it may have hoarded books instead of knives, slept for entire days rather than stay up entire nights, but there were too many for it to be coincidence.

A demon had possessed what was once your child, leaching off of your hospitality like a parasite.

You are terrified by the implications; the knowledge that you have unknowingly been harboring an abomination. There is a demon within your home, and likely has been for years, threatening your family with every breath. All the oddities, the unusual habits, the knowledge beyond its ken – for how long had it been inside her? Had there ever been a true Anuriel, or had you played wet-nurse to a demon even then?

All this animosity and unease, you had practically been baiting it to strike out against its helpless victims! You are only so lucky that it takes its ruse so seriously, to maintain a veneer of mortality for so long. It has everyone convinced of its unassuming innocence – clearly a far more intelligent manner of demon that its kin. Perhaps Pride, or Desire?

One of the most clever and terrible types of demons lurked mere feet from you, your husband, and your son as you slept. Oh, but you are so glad you had never attempted to push the issue before now – imagine if it had taken one of your loved ones hostage? Surely, they would have died in truly terrible ways, or perhaps it would have kept its cover and their demise would be more drawn out and torturous.

**_No_**.

You have lost enough to demons – a sister, a potential daughter – you will _not_ lose anymore. You _will_ protect you family from this monster.

Your hostility towards what Revassan still saw as a child had put a strain on your relationship – one you sorely despised; you loved him, with his easy laughter, and easy confidence – but even if it meant he never spoke to you, never looked you in the eye again, you _would_ remove the demon from this house.

He had fallen in love with you for your strong-will and passion; it was time you found them again instead of cowering away like a nug from a hunter.

The Revered Mother was holding a sermon within the Alienage soon, you would do it then. You had to surprise it, give it no time to plan an escape, or retaliation.

The Templars would do the rest.

It tried to slither out of attending, but you steeled your resolve and put your foot down. It had made a commitment to its role, and kept it however loosely for seven years. If it wished to act against you, it would require forfeiting its guise.

You left it with one of its thralls, the Tabris girl and her father, while you went to explain the situation to the Templars.

They intimidated you, with their polished armor and eyeless glare, but their duty was to protect the common people from mages and abominations, so that’s what they’d do.

Fear grips your heart as you flick your sight back over to it. It is hovering over Salim, daring you to make your move.

It is too late to back out now, you have shown your hand, and if it is not struck down now, you have no doubt its vengeance will be swift and thorough.

You beg harder, and though they are dubious of what they view as a hysterical elven woman, their sense of duty motivates them to investigate. Even a possible demon cannot be left unattended, lest chaos and mayhem ensue.

Ice has begun crawling on the ground around it, and snow flurries in the air. Salim is still next to it, still caught in its thrall, and you are _terrified_. If it decides to strike now, he will be as good as dead, you _all_ will.

“Salim, get away from it,” it is a plead, but you lace steel through your voice anyway. You cannot afford to show weakness now.

He doesn’t move, even though he is clearly shivering in the frigid air. A crowd has gathered around the scene.

“Salim, _come here_. Get away from it and let the Templar do his job,” you beg the Maker to not take him away from you, for him to see reason and break its thrall, coming to your side.

Your prayers are answered as he comes towards you slowly, clearly struggling against the demon’s pull on his mind. You hug him against your leg, shielding him from the demon’s influence.

The Templar taunts it, but does not draw his sword. Turning towards the crowd, he declares his verdict.

You are incensed. “What? That is no _mage!_ It is an _abomination!_ _Slay it!_ ” All this time, all this worry, and they will allow an _abomination_ to roam free? It is a disgrace, a dismissal of their obligation to loyal, hardworking, devout children of the Maker.

It had stolen into your home, stolen your daughter’s life, her _name_ even, and they would grant it bed and board? It was a subtle and insidious fiend, working its way into the hearts and minds of those around it, casting its thrall over them. If they did not cut it down now, it would bring ruin to Thedas.

To be capable of deceiving even Templars, the Holy arm of the Chantry and the Maker Himself? It was a truly dangerous kind of demon. Perhaps more so than even Pride or Desire. Perhaps a different kind entirely, far more treacherous.

“Settle down, knife-ear. If you cannot prove she’s an abomination, she still has to be taken to the Tower. After that, if she turns, it’ll be their problem,” the threat in his voice draws you back to reality and you humble yourself.

Surely those at the Tower will see it for what it is? It will slip up eventually, like it did with her. Its guise is far from perfect, and only one needs to see beneath its mortal mask in order to finally cull it.

As it saunters by, undaunted even in the face of its defeat, it locks eyes with you, and you see a glimmer of wicked glee it its unsettlingly green eyes as it takes in the terror blatantly displayed on your face.

You push Salim further behind you as he trembles against your leg, fingers fisted tightly in the rough fabric of your skirt. It makes no difference, as it flicks its poisonous gaze away, dismissing you and your son, its former thrall, soon after.

How arrogant, to see all those around it as lesser beings, unworthy of its attention.

How fortunate, to be disregarded so.

The crowd disperses, and you hear whispers and feel eyes on you. They would condemn you for attempting to protect your family from an abomination, possibly cleverer than any other? More the fool are they.

Revassan comes home, and he rages quietly at the loss of the demon wearing his daughter’s face.

“Why, Siona? She was ours; we could have hidden her?”

Hidden her? The abomination? The mage their daughter could have been before she was killed, overtaken by the demon? Hidden her so that she could become possessed later, rather than as soon as she had? The ease with which the demon had overwhelmed her soul only goes to show how easily mages can fall prey to the wiles of cunning demons.

It had been so easy for the demons to wear Avis down, night after night – to twist her form into a grotesque aberration.

You say these things, and he grows solemn and silent. There is a storm raging behind his sea green eyes, so different from those reflected back in the face of what was once their daughter. You believe he is most hurt by your assertation that the thing he had loved had been a demon wearing her face; enthralling him with its insidious magic.

You know Salim is listening, but there is nothing you can do if Revassan will not see reason.

He storms out, and you rarely see him after that night; instead, he works long hours at the docks, leaving early and coming home late.

He makes time to see Salim, to teach him how to whittle, how to whistle, and how to tie knots for rigging. He teaches him songs, and stories, and dances, and everything that he is now unable to share with Anuriel.

Overtime, your bond is mended, and he starts coming home as a husband, as well as a father. But a rift remains, vast and abyssal, never to be filled or bridged.

The other elves keep a certain distance now, in the wake of what they deemed a betrayal. For many, the Circle is an improvement to the conditions of the Alienage, but her demand that the Templars kill what had once been her daughter goes against everything they value in their community.

Your son loves you, as any son loves his mother, but you know he doesn’t forgive you for freeing him from the demon’s thrall in the way he carries a certain distance, a deep-seated hurt. Even as he grows, and memories of the abomination grow dimmer and faded, it remains; an invisible weight over the head of everyone in the family.

* * *

You are Siona Surana, and you wish for nothing more than for your family to be whole again; for that demon to have never turned its wicked gaze on you and your lost daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, she's not wrong? But she's not right either.
> 
> *Full disclosure: I did not remember that Siona was the name of Elandrin's sister, and the Emerald Knight that set off the Battle of Red Crossing, which initiated the fall of the Dales. Now that I do, though, it's kinda poetic, isn't it? They both lose a sister, take action out of a sense of protectiveness and misunderstanding, and that action leads to huge consequences down the road.


End file.
